


Never Let Me Go

by sherlock221Bismymuse



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Case Fic, Fictional Religion & Theology, M/M, Sibling Incest, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 17:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19728544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/pseuds/sherlock221Bismymuse
Summary: Here there be monsters...When the Holmes brothers agree to investigate a secretive religious community, they discover that all is not what it seems.  And in the process, they learn a thing or two about themselves as well.





	Never Let Me Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It felt like the end of the world.
> 
> Not a metaphorical end; but a literal one. The sort of end that comes on a map with the warning Here There Be Monsters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, it's been a long while but we're back with our newest collaboration! 
> 
> Just a fair warning off the top, that we will be adding tags as we go. It would ruin the mystery and the surprise if we gave away the twists in the tags. 
> 
> This may have dark and potentially triggering content, so please read responsibly!
> 
> 💕

It felt like the end of the world.

Not a metaphorical end; but a literal one. The sort of end that comes on a map with the warning _Here There Be Monsters._

Ravenswell Manor loomed ahead of them at the end of a long, winding drive, an edifice of charcoal coloured stone against a sky the colour of wet slate. A gothic relic from the days when tenant farmers would bring their rents to the Lord of the Manor in bags of glittering gold coin, and wagon loads of produce.

Now, the trees were winter bare, their black branches crabbed to the side by the constant and relentless wail of the wind from the moor; their reaching limbs giving the Holmes brothers the distinct feeling that they were pleading for help.

Bowed beneath the weight of the cawing murder of crows that perched on their branches.

The ravens of Ravenswell Manor, their terrible, discordant voices raised in protest as the ancient car rattled and ground to a stop on the gravel drive. It was deafening, with a sound that curled into the pits of their stomachs and twisted.

“There y’are, lads… You’ll find your way from here, I’m sure. It’s been…” The driver trailed off as he accepted a small handful of bills from Mycroft, his gaze fixed out the window like he was waiting for the ravens… Or perhaps the Devil himself… to come sweeping out of the slanted chapel at the edge of the grounds.

There didn’t seem to be much point in pleasantries. Not here. There was only one reason people came to this place. So with a muttered thanks, the Holmes brothers slipped out of the cab, and let the relieved driver flee in a coughing plume of acrid exhaust fumes.

From the chapel, made of the same bleak, slate coloured stone as the house, they could hear the sounds of voices, raised in a chant that seemed to grow louder and more ecstatic with every repetition. Lights burned in the tall, thin windows, and cast long shadows of brilliantly coloured light across the dead, brown grass. It was the only colour than endured in the washed out twilight grey.

From the drive they couldn’t make out the words, and when Mycroft reached for his brother’s hand he wasn’t certain which of them he was comforting-- or if they were simply keeping up their charade. But Sherlock didn’t pull away, and with their chilled fingers joined tightly, they could feel the slither of cold, anxious sweat between their palms.

“We aren’t going to learn anything out here.” Mycroft swallowed hard, and his brother only nodded.

Sherlock didn’t even flinch when he found Mycroft’s cold fingers nudging his own. He spread his fingers and tangled them with his brother’s, glad of the comfort it provided instantly. It had been years since they had done this. He remembered all those glorious days when it had always been just the two of them, and almost always hand in hand, as they explored the grounds, or read books or lay down at night to watch the stars.

His entire world, everything he had ever wanted, had been just an arm’s length away. To love and to cherish. To have and to hold. 

Until the day he had turned 12, and Mycroft had left home

The gravel drive crunched under their shoes as they made their way up to the door of the manor, the once glossy and ancient wood now scarred; the surface carved deeply with the symbol of the Children of the Radiant Union. 

Before they could open the door, however, it swung wide to reveal a woman in a long, green sweater dress, a flash of vivid colour against the unrelieved grey. Behind her, the house seemed old, but welcoming, a rush of warmth escaping to chase the chill from the brother’s reddened cheeks. 

Sherlock clutched Mycroft’s hand a little tighter as the door opened. When she spoke, he felt the whispers of his deeply buried emotions starting to rise up like the mist that was surrounding them.

Around her neck, half nestled in the deep vee of her décolletage, was the same symbol as on the door. The silver necklace glittered coldly against the dark tan of her skin -- but she had clearly been wearing it so long that she didn’t notice it anymore. 

“You must be Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes-- come in, come in! We were starting to get worried!” 

_Yes,_ Sherlock thought to himself. _Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes._ _Those names should always be spoken of in one breath._

“Sometimes it’s hard to get people to drive out this way,” She continued, and stepped back from the door, “Did you have any trouble finding the manor? No- wait- you can tell me after. Let’s get you both inside and warmed up. Careful, watch the step, it’s a little loose! I’m Dr. Kelsey, but everyone here just calls me Jen, since we’re all family!”

Doctor. Married-- twice. No. Polyamorous. Two rings stacked together to make a statement. 

As they followed behind her, Sherlock's eyes darted into every shadowy corner and cataloged every blurry shape and every murky structure. 10 feet by 10 feet room, with a sweeping 20 feet high ceiling, that tapered off towards the narrow corridors; a grand entrance, the relic of ancient architectural design.

A tapestry in the hallway, machine made and bright, with the symbol of the Children emblazoned in brilliant gold thread. Deep maroon curtains in the second room. Door to the left, clearly locked. Three cupboards, holding a wealth of spare jackets and umbrellas. 

The windows were boarded on most of the ground floor, and the brothers could only deduce that they were keeping prying eyes out-- too many investigators from Scotland Yard, and eager reporters looking to make their reputations on that story. 

_You are unwelcome here_ , the boards seemed to state, at odds with the Children’s claims that they had nothing to hide.

But now they were on the inside, every visible detail was being noted and filed away for perusal later.

As they moved in further, Sherlock noted the veritable kaleidoscope of odours twisting and turning and taunting his especially sensitive olfactory system. Musty, spicy smells with an occasional sharp whiff that even tasted like ozone. A subtle, very subtle few molecules of something rank and putrid assaulted his senses in one of the larger rooms at the back, and he made a note to explore that closely later. Incense, burnt carbon, metallic smell like old blood, some kind of musk and dusty paper. 

Human smells, of soap and tea, and what was probably a roast dinner; the rich, meaty smell wafting occasionally from the back of the house, where the kitchen must be.

His brain was whirring and going into overdrive, trying to make sure he identified everything. Lives could depend on this. On him. Sherlock didn't realize that he was tense as a coiled spring as a result, until Mycroft gently rubbed his free thumb on his palm. The gesture instantly soothed him, and he took in a deep breath. Filled his lungs in with all the disparate and odd molecules and let it all out in a sigh that was a little shaky. 

From the cold. 

From the knowledge that this could be dangerous. For Mycroft. For him. For both of them.

“No trouble, none at all.” Mycroft hummed under his breath to their greeter, and obediently toed off his shoes when she motioned to the rack by the door. A handful of pairs rested there already, the seams and soles clinging to more of the slippery, reddish mud from outside.

“What a relief! We thought you were going to be here this afternoon, and when you didn’t arrive? Well, we’d almost feared the worst.”

Somehow, Mycroft thought, sparing a sidelong glance to his brother, they had very different ideas of what ‘the worst’ might be. 

“Our apologies, it was nothing like that. Just a delay at the station. We did try to call, but-”

“Oh, yes, well!” The woman in green rubbed her hands briskly in front of her, and motioned with a flick of her fingers for the boys to follow, “We don’t have much by way of reception all the way out here. It takes everyone a while to get used to it; but once you do? It’s such a relief. You don’t realize how much pressure there is, Out There. You’ll settle in soon enough, I promise. We all do!” The emphasis on the words made it sound strange, and other.

 _Out There_ where the people are trapped in their expectation of the acceptable. Where they’re isolated, and sad. Where they aren’t as lucky as we are.

A drop of clammy sweat pooled between the brother’s joined fingers as they were led away from the main living areas, and to a tall staircase. Communal spaces downstairs, and bedrooms in the upper levels; it strangely felt more like being back at the dormitories back in school.

And it was clear, from the way the woman in green stuck close to their sides, that they wouldn’t be allowed to roam freely around the house. Not yet. 

The upstairs hall was panelled in dark wood, unrelieved, save for a few paintings that had clearly been left behind by the previous occupants. “You two are probably exhausted from all your traveling. There’s a bathroom at the end of the corridor, and another on the ground floor-- by the kitchens, but it’s rather harder to find. I’ll send one of the others up to get you for dinner.”

It wasn’t a suggestion, despite her easy smile.

Their room was at the end of the corridor, and when Jen pushed open the heavy door, it creaked faintly on the old hinges. Neither brother knew what to expect; but the tidy room smelled of lemony furniture polish, and the bed had been invitingly made with white linens and a heavy bedspread in dark blues and greens. 

There was a closet, and a fireplace that had been lit for their arrival; the flames in the grate crackled softly, and chased away the gloomy cold from outside. Even the window, with its ancient, charmingly crazed glass, looked out over the back yard-- though at this time of the darkening evening, it just reflected their own faces back at them.

It was more welcoming than a previously uninhabited room aught to be; the sort that beckoned for you to put down your bags, and rest. 

“If you need anything, just come downstairs. There’s spare blankets in the cupboard, as well; it’s an old house, it gets a little drafty sometimes.” Jen paused in the doorway, the curve of her hip and shoulder balanced comfortably against the frame, “We’re so happy to have you both here. Everyone here knows what it’s like to be Out There. How hard it is to be in love, and to know you have to hide it. Living that… Lie.” Her gaze dropped to their joined hands, and something in her expression softened, “You don’t have to be afraid here. Your Union is going to bring Him so much joy; and we’re you’re going to be so happy here. I can already tell.”

With a solid, metallic click of the latch, the door swung closed; and they could hear the sound of Jen’s footsteps as they faded down the corridor.

For the first time that day, Mycroft and Sherlock were alone, and their eyes met with a shared look of sinking trepidation.

One bed.

No cell connection.

And a hundred miles to the nearest village.


End file.
